Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 04:48:52 -0700 (PDT)
From: Alex O'donnell
Subject: Cinderfella, part 5 (SciFi/Authoritarian)
The following story is an erotic fantasy story meant for mature readers and
should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. It
involves depictions of sex. If this subject matter offends, then stop
reading this page now.
This story is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any living
person. Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal
to do so.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited
without permission. The author would appreciate your comments, pro and con,
including constructive criticism, and suggestions. My thanks to Chuck,
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Cinderfella, pt. 5
It was the year 2030 when the repeal of the 13th Amendment to the
U.S. Constitution changed my life. Diminishing incomes meant my mother was
no longer able to pay the bills, and I had willingly signed a contract
indenturing myself to my new stepfather, a man named Jake Head. Jake was a
total jerk, and I hated living in his house. But the situation became much
worse when his sons came for a visit.
* * * *
"Don't I know you?" one of Jake's sons said, looking at me closer. "Wait a
minute. Of course I do. I'd recognize that ugly face anywhere. You're 'Icky
Ricky'!"
"Dude, no way!" the other one said. "That kid was a fuckin' faggot!"
"No, it's him," the first one said. "Look at those big jughead ears. Looks
like fuckin' Dopey. Even without the hair, I can tell it's him."
The words 'Icky Ricky' had suddenly flashed me back to my freshman year of
high school, when I had been continually bullied by several jock
upperclassmen. Every day, they had made my school life a living hell. It
was only when they finally graduated that high school had become bearable
for me.
Now, as I looked at them, I recognized them. And my heart sank as I
realized these two assholes who had tormented me for so long were now my
stepbrothers. Shit!
"Dude, it IS Icky Ricky!" the other guy said.
"Boys, watch your language around your mother," my stepfather said. "And
try to treat Dick here with some respect. He's your step-servant, not a
field slave."
"Sorry, Dad," Christopher said. "I just can't believe it. I sat one table
away from Icky Ricky at lunch for two years."
It was true: during high school, he and his jock buddies had all sat a
nearby table, throwing spitwads and garbage at me during lunch. They made
comments and humiliated me every day until eventually I had given up eating
lunch at all. During lunch hour, I would go hide in the restroom, feeling
like a complete coward and loser. But I couldn't face them. Mom had always
wondered why I had such an appetite at dinner: Christopher Head and his
asshole buddies were the reason.
"That's nothing!" Daniel said. "Icky Ricky was my lab partner in Chemistry
class."
Daniel had tormented me even more than Christopher had. He had been my
assigned Chem partner, and unlike Christopher, I couldn't get away from
him. Every day in class, while he sat next to me, he would call me names
and treat me like shit. The other students had joined in at times, but he
was the main instigator. Several times in private, I had asked the teacher
to please reassign me to a different lab partner, but the teacher,
Mr. Grimes, had just told me to "suck it up".
I can't tell you how awful I felt right then, standing in front of two of
my high school tormenters. I felt like I was a freshman again, reliving
that nightmare. But it was even worse, now: these young men were
successful, well-dressed, and wealthy, and I was this dopey-looking,
bald-pated, jug-eared indentured servant loser standing there in my
underwear on Christmas Eve.
"So you three already know each other!" Jake said. "That's great. It will
be much less awkward for everyone that way. Now let's go to the dining room
and get something to eat. I'm famished!"
Everyone agreed with that suggestion, and headed for the dining room. I
trailed behind. I didn't want to eat dinner with these two assholes who had
already made two years of my life so miserable. And I didn't want to eat
with my bastard stepfather, who constantly criticized and humiliated
me. Part of me wanted to go hide in the restroom, as I had done in high
school.
Instead, I followed them into the dining room, which I had just cleaned and
festively decorated for the holiday earlier that day. The table was
decorated with folded green and red napkins. I had carefully set the table,
making sure to set out all the forks, knives, and spoons correctly.
Mom, Jake, Christopher and Daniel each grabbed their seats at the table,
everyone saying how hungry they were.
"The table looks wonderful, Richard," Mom complimented me.
"It really does," my stepfather agreed. "Wait. Where are the lobster
picks?"
"sir, I... Lobster pick?"
"Yes, the lobster picks, Dick. Where are they? I distinctly told you we'd
be having lobster tonight. And I saw you boiling the lobster myself. But
how can we eat our lobster without lobster picks?" He looked at me like I
was an idiot.
"Sir, please... I don't even know what a lobster pick is," I admitted.
Daniel smirked.
My stepfather gave me a disappointed look. "They're the long, narrow forks
in the fork drawer. Go get us some."
I ran off to the kitchen find some lobster picks, returning a few minutes
later. As I handed them to Jake, he said, "Two demerits, boy."
I shuddered, thinking of last night's paddling.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said. "I didn't..."
"'Sorry' doesn't get back the time we just wasted," Jake said
testily. "Honestly, Dick, I thought you could at least get the table
settings correct without me having to supervise. You're going to have to
get with the program, the sooner the better."
"I'm really sorry, Sir," I stammered.
"Yes, I heard you the first time, boy," he snapped. "The question is, when
will you stop being so goddamned incompetent?"
"Jake," Mom said, her voice full of rapprochement. "He didn't know. Our
family's never had money; he's probably never heard of a lobster pick
before, and..."
"Marsha, you've got to stop making excuses for the boy," he said.
He turned back to me and said, "Nevermind, just bring us our salads."
I brought out the salads while they said grace as a family, holding each
other's hands across the table. Then they began eating as the four of them
chatted merrily. I ate my salad at the kitchen counter, as befitting
someone of my station, keeping my ears open in case they needed anything. I
knew I better not slip up any more tonight. I hoped I wouldn't. I knew I
probably would. Why did my stepfather have to be such a perfectionist?
Wasn't I already serving him to the best of my abilities?! Just thinking
about it made me lose my appetite.
Later, after I brought out the main course, Mom mentioned how chilly it was
in the dining room.
"That's because the fire's gone down too low," Jake said. "Dick, be a good
boy and go get some more logs for the fireplace. There's a big pile of logs
on the back deck."
"Yes Sir," I said, as obediently as possible. I went out the back door to
quickly grab a few logs for the fire. The wooden deck was very cold on my
bare feet.
As I rounded the corner, I saw my new family through the picture
window. They looked so much like a Norman Rockwell painting, sitting there
eating and chatting merrily, their golden hair shining in the
lamplight. Mom laughed at something Jake said. With her fancy new clothes
and make-up, she looked as much a part of the Head family as the rest of
them.
I felt like such an outsider, watching them from out on the deck. I didn't
have their golden hair or Norman Rockwell looks. I wasn't successful or
athletic. I was their step-servant, nothing more.
I brought in the firewood, listening to my stepfather complain about how
long it took to bring in a few pieces of wood.
* * * *
After dinner, everyone went into the living room to open Christmas
presents. They all oohed and ahhed appreciatively as they opened their
gifts. Christopher was especially pleased when he opened the package
containing his new PlayStation 9; as much delighted as when Daniel opened
up his new XBox Seven. Mom seemed thrilled with her new designer handbag
and pashmina, while Jake loved his new power tools. Every present seemed so
perfect, like in a Hollywood movie.
I stood in the background, trying not to look envious at all the fantastic
gifts everyone was receiving. I'm pretty sure I wasn't entirely successful.
When all the presents were opened, Mom turned around and beckoned to
me. She whispered, "There's still one present left, Richard. Go get it. Go
on, sweetie."
"Thank you, Mom," I said, glad that she still cared about me, even if I
wasn't 'Norman Rockwell' material.
I went over to the tree and picked up the last present, which had been
nearly hidden under all the discarded wrapping paper from the other
presents. I unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment. It was only one gift,
but it was mine.
It was a nice pair of jeans and a polo shirt. I looked at Mom with tears in
my eyes, gratitude welling in my heart. I'd actually have something to wear
on special occasions.
"Thank you, Mom," I said. I couldn't say anything else. The words wouldn't
come.
"I'm really sorry, Dick," my stepfather said. "But you can't keep that
gift. Indentured servants aren't allowed to own any possessions in the
state of Wisconsin."
"But Jake..." Mom began.
"I'm sorry, Marsha," he said, firmly. "I really wish you had asked me about
this purchase before you made it. Unfortunately, Dick can't keep it. It's
just not legal."
Jake gently but firmly took the box from my hands and slowly passed it over
to his sons. "Do either of you want a nice pair of jeans or a polo?" he
asked.
"I'll take the jeans," Christopher said.
"I'll take the polo, I guess," Daniel shrugged. "It's not really my style,
but I suppose I can donate it to the Poorhouse tomorrow."
"That's my boy," Jake said, beaming with pride. "Always thinking of
others. I raised you well, son." He patted Daniel on the shoulder.
Then he turned to me and said, "Dick, I really am sorry about the
present. I didn't know your mom was going to get you a gift. But as an
indenturee, you just cannot legally own things. You're contracted labor,
not a Free Man. The laws are very clear. I hope you understand, boy."
"Yes, Sir," I said, fighting back tears. The last thing I wanted to do was
cry in front of these people. I excused myself to go to the downstairs
restroom.
* * * *
When I got back from the restroom, Daniel was telling a funny anecdote.
"Here he is!" he said. "Get over here, you big knucklehead. I was just
telling Dad and Mom about all the fun we used to have in high
schhol. Remember that game we used to play in high school, called 'Johnny
Jet'? You remember that game, right, Dick?"
'Oh, God. Not Johnny Jet,' I thought to myself. I hated that 'game'.
"What is 'Johnny Jet', son?" Jake asked. "I've never heard of it."
"Dick and I used to play it all the time, didn't we, Dick?" Daniel said
with a laugh. "I'll demonstrate, just for old time's sake. See, one player
steps behind the other. Like this."
He stepped behind me.
"Then, Player One grabs Player Two by the ears, like so."
He grabbed my by my ears, twisting them painfully as he did so.
"Gotta get a really good grip on them," Daniel explained. "Luckily, that's
easy, what with Dick's big ole Dumbo ears. Then, you say, 'Johnny Jet,
Johnny Jet!' as you guide him around the room making airplane noises."
He demonstrated, quickly pulling me around the room by the ears, jerking my
head to the left, then to the right, then back to the left as he went. Then
he pulled my ears up so I was standing on my tiptoes as he made me run
backwards. Then he went low to the ground as he 'lowered the plane'. All
this time, he made airplane noises as he pulled me around the room by my
ears.
The really bad part came next, as he made the 'machine gun turret' noise,
shaking my ears vigorously as he did so. My head was shaking so violently
that I couldn't see straight.
I heard the room crack up in laughter as he demonstrated this horrible
'game'.
"Please, you're hurting my ears!" I yelled.
"Oh, relax, you big baby," Christopher said. "He was just demonstrating."
"And that's how 'Johnny Jet' is played," Daniel said, as he let go of my
ears.
"I don't get it," Mom said. "It doesn't seem like a lot of fun for Player
Two."
"Oh, you can always switch," Daniel assured her.
Not that I had actually ever had a chance to be Player One.
"Well gang, I think Dick's had enough fun and games for one night," Jake
said. "It's about time for bed, and he still has to clean up the kitchen
and finish his chores."
"I can help him, Dad," Christopher volunteered.
"Oh, no, Chris," my stepfather replied. "I wouldn't hear of it. You boys
are guests in our home. And I wouldn't want Dick to get too used to having
help around the house. When you boys go back to Milwaukee, he won't have
any help. No, let Dick handle the clean-up; that's the arrangement that he,
your mother and I agreed upon."
And so I went to the kitchen and began the evening kitchen clean-up while
the family went upstairs to get ready for bed.
Just as I was finishing up the dishes, Jake came downstairs, his hunky,
muscular frame descending the staircase slowly. My stepfather was
barechested again, but tonight instead of the blue boxers, he was wearing a
pair of white athletic shorts that left little to the imagination. The legs
were cut just below the crotch, showcasing his thick, muscular thighs. It
was hard not to gawk at his nearly naked, ripped body.
"Time to work off those demerits, Dick," he said, gripping my shoulder
firmly. Then he steered me into the living room and again had me get the
paddle from the mantle. This time, however, he sat down on an armless chair
in front of the fireplace.
After I fetched him the paddle, he had me lean down across his lap. The
position was really awkward.
"Spread your legs, boy," he said.
I spread my legs as best I could. I was now arched over his lap, with my
ass at the highest point, and my arms and legs below on each side.
Then my stepfather pulled off my string T-shirt and yanked down the back of
my undershorts.
"Five swats per demerit, boy," he grunted. "That's ten swats tonight. Don't
forget to count."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
Then I heard a noise. A creak from the staircase.
"What's going on, Dad?" Christopher said, walking into the room.
'Oh, God,' I thought. 'Can this day get any worse?'
"Oh, I'm just instilling a little discipline in Dick, here," Jake
said. "We've got to work off his demerits from today, you see."
"Neat!" Christopher said. "May I watch?"
"Of course, Chris," my asshole stepfather said. "Pull up a chair, son. This
could prove instructive for you as well."
As Christopher sat down in a nearby chair, Jake explained to me in a
patient but firm voice that although I was reluctant to get my ass paddled,
"you need discipline in your life, boy," he said. "As the Good Book says in
Hebrews, chapter 12, verse 11: 'All discipline seems painful rather than
pleasant, but it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who
have been trained by it.'"
"You see, Dick," he continued, "God rewards those who serve faithfully, and
punishes those who show sloth. In time, you will come to understand
that. You must never idle when given work. You must serve faithfully, for
that is the road to the kingdom of heaven. You must anticipate what your
Master wants from you, before it is even commanded. And you must be
thankful for your punishments, for they are instruction. Do you understand
me, Dick?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, trying to sound contrite.
"Good, Dick," he said. "I want you to count each stroke. And I want you to
thank me, as well."
Thank him? For beating me?! I wanted to scream.
"Yes, Sir," I said, miserably.
Just then, he brought the paddle down hard. SMACK! I wasn't expecting it
that soon, and he caught me off guard.
"Uhhh! One, Sir! Thank you, Sir," I managed.
SMACK!
"Owww! Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir," I said through gritted teeth.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Again and again, the paddle came down, ten blows altogether. By the end of
the ten blows, I was howling, tears streaming down my face.
"Alright, boy. Get up," he said.
But just like last night, when I went to get up, I had a raging hard-on
tenting the front of my undershorts.
As I stood up, trying to subtlely adjust my dick in my drawers while
pulling up the back of my undershorts, I heard Christopher say, "Looks like
Dick liked that paddling, Dad. Look, he actually sprung a boner!
Disgusting!"
To be continued...